And yet, on the very site of the sordid tenements and squalid courts we have mentioned, where the felon openly made his dwelling, and the fraudulent debtor laughed the object of his knavery to scorn—on this spot, not two centuries ago, stood the princely residence of Charles Brandon, the chivalrous Duke of Suffolk, whose stout heart was a well of honour, and whose memory breathes of loyalty and valour. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. "He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. It must have cut him.
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